


Twice is a coincidence

by Petra



Category: Leverage, White Collar
Genre: Character of Color, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-23
Updated: 2010-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A straitlaced, smart Federal agent and the clever, charming felon who's working with him: Clinton Jones & Alec Hardison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twice is a coincidence

**Author's Note:**

> Sage said that Jones needed a visible life outside of work. Instead of expounding on that theme, I gave him a felon of his very own. FairestCat helped me tighten up the con and Sage helped make sure that it would be comprehensible to people who haven't seen Leverage.

Jones comes into the office one fine Monday morning, his hand still aching from initialing here, here, here, and here, plus signing there, there, there, there, there, and there, with the overly cheerful and overly colorful fruit of his labors in tow. He says, "Touch anything--I mean anything--without permission and you're going back to jail with no phonecall."

"I heard you the first ten times," the man says, and tugs on his orange and purple striped shirt. "I may be convicted, but I ain't deaf. Or stupid."

Jones sighs and leads him to the littlest conference room on the floor. Cruz shows up three minutes later--she's good about checking her schedule in the mornings--and gives Jones's companion a long look. She wasn't around for the long nights Jones put in, piecing together all sorts of computer-related crimes, so there's no reason she should recognize him. Besides, the guy's no Neal Caffrey. She says, "Morning."

"Good morning," says the man in the loud shirt, looking hopeful.

"Don't talk," Jones tells him. He says, "I'll introduce you in a minute," to Cruz. "Just--for now--give him a ten-foot radius." It might've been easier if he'd told everyone what Hughes had ordered him to do, but that was in the orders, too: keep everything off the radar until it's final, no internal communications, you know how he is about making friends who might just read the emails and grab him out again.

She holds up her hands, though one of them has a coffee in it. "You got it."

Hughes sticks his head in the door a minute later and gives Jones a nod. "You got him."

"Yes, sir," Jones says. He doesn't ask, "Why me?" again, mostly because if there's an answer, he's not about to hear it.

"Good." Hughes taps the doorframe. "Keep him out of trouble."

Cruz's eyebrows go up at that. Jones just says, "I'll do my best," and gives her a look that asks her to shut up for right now.

She's good like that, most of the time. Instead of asking, she pulls out her smartphone. It makes Jones nervous to have it anywhere near his new responsibility, but the man's been frisked six ways from Sunday and he can't have gotten a useable electronic device between the scanners at the door and the conference room.

Burke and Caffrey show up a few minutes later. The meeting was called "C. Jones - Informational" on the system, which was about as uninformative as it got, and besides, Caffrey's not so hot at punctuality. "Morning," Burke says, and Caffrey smiles like he's smarter than everybody. Nothing new there.

Jones stands up and says, "Agents Burke and Cruz--and Caffrey, this is Alec Hardison. Hardison, these are the people you're going to have to listen to, except for Caffrey; he's not in charge of anything. Say hi."

Hardison says, "Yo."

Jones does not punch him; that would be brutality. But he's tempted. He grits his teeth for a second and thinks about all the cases he's chased Hardison on--tax fraud, messing with international bank accounts, hacking systems Jones had never heard of--and how fast they all turned to nothing. "Don't let him touch anything with buttons or a battery; he's been convicted on two counts of computer-related fraud and those are just the ones we could finally pin on him. He's here as a--" Jones is really coming to hate the word "--consultant."

Burke raises his eyebrows. "I didn't realize I was setting a trend."

"I kind of wish you hadn't," Jones says.

"I didn't do nothin'," Hardison insists. "I'm innocent of all the charges laid against me."

"I wasn't," Caffrey says.

Hardison grins and reaches across the table. "Hey, Caffrey. Haven't seen you in ages." They fistbump.

Jones groans and thinks of the stacks of papers he's seen and created on Hardison, and how none of them had said, "Alec Hardison has underworld connections beyond his World of Warcraft guild and various hacker websites." He snaps, "Don't talk to each other."

"Aw, come on, man," Hardison says, spreading his hands as if that makes him innocent. "Whole building full of you uptight white-hats, a brother's got to relax where he can."

Jones shakes his head. "No." He doesn't like the thought of losing Burke's help, but, "If you're fraternizing, we're switching teams."

"We just said hello," Caffrey protests. The more he tries to look innocent, the more Jones suspects him of passing Hardison some kind of magical technology that will let him crack the FBI system in ten seconds flat.

"Caffrey," Burke says, "in my office." He gives Jones a sympathetic look. "Good luck, Agent."

Cruz gets up again. "Yeah, you're going to need it."

"How the hell do you know Caffrey?" Jones asks.

Hardison examines his fingernails like he ever does anything that gets them dirty. "I know people who know people."

Despite his inherent untrustworthiness and annoying dress sense, Jones is convinced that Hardison is one of the brighter guys out there on the wrong side of the law. He shouldn't need to be reminded of the conditions of the program. "That's not good enough."

Hardison shrugs. "He gave me painting lessons."

The mental image makes Jones laugh, even though he doesn't want to give Hardison the satisfaction. "No way."

"Way. You got a pen and paper I can borrow? I'll show you."

The restrictions on his movement involve computers, telephones, and the internet, but not pens. Jones takes one out of his pocket and hands it over, then thinks better of it. "You know the one good thing about your being here?"

"One good thing. Well, I ain't in jail?"

Jones shakes his head. "You're supposed to be so far away from technology I got an office." The quasi-promotion had thrown him for a loop when he heard about it, and he's still not sure what's going to happen if--when--Hardison screws up. For now, he's going to enjoy the view from above the desk farm. Sort of.

"Well, damn, let's go." Hardison claps his hands once and gets up.

"Hands where I can see them all the way there, or I'll cuff you."

"That's cold, real cold." Hardison tsks against his teeth. "I didn't do anything yet."

"Good. Move it."

"Office" is a big word for the space Jones has, which is maybe one step above a broom closet and has two desks shoved into it with honest-to-goodness typewriters on them. "Get a load of the Sterling Cooper decor," Hardison says, and looks Jones over. "What the hell'd you do to these people?"

"I did my job to the best of my abilities. And you're going to do yours." Jones points toward the chair farther from the door. "Your desk. Anybody comes in here, you keep your hands visible."

"I got it. I so much as look longingly at somebody's iPhone and I'm on my way back to jail before I can say, 'What's that app called?'" Hardison shakes his head and sprawls in the chair. "But this--this is just wrong. All them white boys in offices with the big glass walls, and here they redid interrogation room number forty-three in Depression Gray and threw you in."

Jones sighs and sits down at the typewriter. The only mercy is that it's electric. There's a stack of paper next to it, and on the third try he manages to get the sheet to feed properly. "Tell me everything you know about Yvonne Scarlett."

Hardison looks up from his matching typewriter--he's got the damned thing practically purring, though god knows what he's writing--and gives Jones a skeptical look. "You want a full-on rundown, and you ain't even going to bother with asking actual questions? Damn, no wonder you got the crappy office."

*

First day not-really-loose on the streets of the Big Apple and Alec wants to throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge. It's not the people, it's how goddamn quiet it is in his head with nothing to fidget with, no connection to the universe, just millions of people all around him who don't want to talk to him.

"It'll be easy," Nate said. "Just set something up that's so obvious they'll catch you, and if the Feds don't spring you in three weeks, we'll spring you."

Alec swears up and down that he's never going to listen to another damn thing that man says, especially when Jones says, "We're going to your apartment," in the voice that means no subways, no drug stores with handy-dandy pay-as-you-go phones, no net cafes. Just a Fed and his car and his pet felon--Alec's going to erase that crap out of his file the second he gets free, hand to God.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" Alec says, and Jones gives him the look that means, "Why do you keep saying stuff when you know I can't argue with you about it?" The recon for the job--the damn job, and exactly when does Nate get to be the one thrown in jail without so much as an Apple IIe--already turned up that Caffrey's not living in the place they're about to throw Hardison.

Some guys, you throw them in a lake of crap and they come up with a diamond in their hands.

Some guys, you throw them in the most miserable goddamn hotel-cum-crackerjack box in the city and they get the view of the brick wall next door. "Lock down his radius for the night," Jones says to the people running Alec's theoretically unhackable anklet, and then he has to look up his own cell number to write it down on paper. Next to the phone, which is a no-kidding rotary dial.

"Do you guys have, like, a directory of entrances to Hell?" Alec points at the phone. "Or is this just a time warp thing?"

Jones looks kind of apologetic, but still smug. "That one was installed special by the management at the Bureau's request."

"And it's tapped." Alec doesn't have to pick it up to know that.

"Yep." Jones looks at the water stain on the ceiling and the don't-ask stains on the carpet. "You need anything else?"

"Ten minutes alone with a laptop?"

It gets a real smile out of him before he backs toward the door. "Don't try any jumps to the right around here. I don't think the floor can handle it."

"Hang on--" Alec says, but Jones just waves bye-bye and gets out of there like he knows how many cockroaches live in the walls.

What Jones doesn't know, 'cause ain't nobody going to watch the alley too narrow for anything, is that by the time Alec's finished setting the locks on the door, there's a knock on his window.

He unlocks it just in time to keep Parker from using the diamond-tipped compass. "Hey."

She steps in like he opened a car door for her. "Classy."

It's so good to see her he almost kisses her, but he doesn't have to try that in the middle of a job twice to learn what she'll do if he tries it. "I miss you guys," he says instead.

Parker's smile at that is somewhere between "You're sweet" and "I know I'm supposed to appreciate that thought because Sophie practiced with me." She unfastens her rig and opens her jacket. "Bet you missed this stuff more."

She's got enough beautiful silicon to keep New Egg in business for a week under there, and Alec has to wipe his eyes before he can say anything. "Most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."

Parker doesn't call him on his allergy attack because she's too busy unstrapping it all, one delicate piece at a time. "I'm not leaving any of it behind."

Alec's pretty sure that somebody's going to sweep his room while he's out, at least until he gets a layer of trust. He doesn't want to stick around long enough to make them actually think he's one of the good guys in any lasting way. Instead, he gets down to the business of putting together a functional computer as fast as he can. It deals with the monitor problem with a little projector and the keyboard issue with a roll-up; the infrared imaginary keyboards aren't good enough for his typing speed.

Parker is half-asleep on the saggy bed by the time he's got a wi-fi signal. It's not the best bandwidth he's ever found for free, but he'll take it. With a few bits and pieces he picked up around the Fed HQ, he's into their system faster than he's ever been, sucking down files on the whole White Collar division because he's nowhere near dumb enough to sneak in there and just take out the ones on the people he needs to know about. "Huh. Lauren," he says, skimming Cruz's file. "Good to know."

When the download gets to the consultants, he bangs his hand on the bed so hard it borks his projector setup and wakes up Parker, who pins him with an armbar over his throat. "What?" she says.

"Everything's fine," he says in a choked voice. When she lets him go, he says, "You gotta stop working on that stuff with Eliot or you're gonna kill us both in our sleep sometime."

"I'm sure he can defend himself. Why did you wake me up?"

"Got a good Google Maps look at the place Caffrey's staying." He readjusts the projector. "I'm in here, and he's in--there."

Parker tilts her head to one side. "Do you think they have a good safe? Maybe diamonds?"

Hardison does a little more digging on the address and the occupant, who shows up in a picture at a charity ball benefiting runaway children. Even with the flashbulbs popping, the lady's got a look in her eye that reminds him of his Nana. "We're not going near it," he tells Parker. "Least, not to take stuff."

"No?" She pouts; Alec pinches himself because a) that shouldn't be attractive, a girl sticking her mouth out like that and b) he's still got stuff to do.

A few more files, and thank you Agent Jones for the nice log-in session, not that it's going to show up on his account because Alec's better than that and knows Jones is thinking of him. "Okay," he says after he finishes a few more things and makes sure nobody's sent him anything do-or-die important lately, and starts breaking down the computer set up again. "So you're from the DC office this time."

"Agent Sheridan, I know." She pats another pocket on her jacket. "And my forgery case is really important."

If she'd put in half as much time on talking to people with Sophie as she has on beating people up with Eliot, she could probably sell that line. "Right, good, and you need me too because--"

Parker frowns. "You're the whole reason I came to New York," and either she's pissed off or she's in character. "The fences for the paintings all have fake IDs and faked taxes and faked histories that can be traced to you. I think it's you, anyway, and if it's not you, then you'll be able to figure it out."

Alec smiles. "That'll do it. But they'll probably put Jones on the case too, 'cause they don't want to let me out alone. And maybe Burke, too."

"We're going to be outnumbered, then." Parker wrinkles her nose. "I mean, you're okay at ground work, but it's not like you're doing everything you should be doing."

"I know, I know." Alec shakes his head. If they'd had time--if they'd had Sophie--but no way was he going to teach Tara half enough to pretend to be him, or somebody as good as him, and nobody else was a good enough grifter to pull it off. Except maybe Nate, but Alec would rather be in this mess with Nate knowing how to get him out of it than be responsible for being Nate if something went bad.

Parker finishes tucking everything back into her vest. "See you in the morning," she says.

Alec thinks about catching her by the shoulder, kissing her, and the many and interesting ways she could either respond enthusiastically or kick his ass. "You could stay a while," he offers.

She gives him the "Your strange human ways are so darn cute" smile. "You can't get naked enough."

That's not exactly true; she's got the technology to get him out of the tracking anklet strapped right under her left--he can't think about that right now. If they jailbreak him early, someone will notice and want to know why and how. "God, seriously?"

Parker pats his cheek and heads for the window. "I'll tell Eliot you said hi."

"Don't you go having sex without me."

She pauses with one foot up on the window frame. "Why not?"

The thought of them having each other while all he's got is a pillow that's seen too many heads makes him so lonely he wants to cry, and she hasn't even left yet. "I can't even call and listen in," he complains.

Parker pats her cleavage down, and Alec whimpers. "I could leave you a phone you could throw out of the window afterward."

He facepalms. "Just--you guys owe me when I get home."

Parker smiles and comes over to give him a real goodbye kiss, the kind that makes him wish he could make her stay. "Eliot said he's baking you a cake."

The last cake Eliot had made was for Alec's birthday. It was a picture-perfect Portal cake, except that instead of following the fake recipe it had been all-organic all-free-trade awesome, and after the first bite Alec had texted him under the table, "U win. My ass=all yrs 4 a wk" because Nate was right there and there were things you just didn't say in front of Nate, even when Eliot had obviously figured out how to Google, remembered Alec saying, "The cake is a lie," and sold his soul to make the best cake in the world.

Alec lets out a long breath. "Tell him--I am, and always will be, his friend."

"Okay," Parker says, totally missing the reference, which is also going to go sailing right over Eliot's head. But it's better that way. Alec's not going to go swearing his undying love until he's got that cake in his hand. And mouth.

"See you," he says, and bites his tongue so he doesn't scream when Parker drops out the window. She's fine, he knows it, she knows it, but there are things that take way longer to get used to than logic would dictate.

*

Clinton Jones takes a shower as soon as he gets home to get the smell of the place where they're stashing Hardison off him, then puts on a t-shirt and jeans and pulls out his laptop. His Facebook is hopping--his sister's kids are being cute, like they are half the time; his mom and her bridge partner kicked butt; his dad's going fishing starting tomorrow and is really damn glad to be retired. Plus two of his college buddies are in town this weekend, and they should definitely hang and catch up. All that, and Cristal sent him a private message about last Wednesday and can she see him again, soon?

He's not sure how much extra time he's going to have to put in babysitting Hardison, so he sends her a tentative yes, then switches to MySpace where his middle name's different and he doesn't give out his data to his family. There's only one important message over there: Sandra wants to see him Friday if he's got the time and the energy. For Sandra, he's got plenty of time, he hopes, so there's another yes, and the old roommates are just going to have to wait until Saturday.

With all that taken care of, he should be ready to relax and watch a movie or something, but he's still too tense. Something about Hardison and how he'd known Caffrey, maybe known he was working with the Bureau--he breaks out the VPN and the layers of security that maybe keep all their important data safe from a guy like Hardison, on a good day, if they're lucky.

Known associates is one hell of a big file for Hardison, Alec, and none of them are looking familiar or flagged as being in town. Hardison's been spotted in LA, Boston, and for something or other in Omaha of all places. There's also a bunch of stuff Interpol has locked down as being their problem and not for piddly American screw-ups.

Whoever James Sterling is, Clinton wants to give him a long, hard talk about sharing intel and how it's led to higher solve rates across the board, but he doesn't have the time, the energy, or the authority.

Caffrey isn't in Hardison's file under any known aliases or as a John Doe, and that makes Jones feel better about his ignorance. If he'd missed something he should've known, that would've been worse than just not knowing it. There are no notes in Caffrey's dossier about painting lessons for anyone, ever, and that's just as well for him; it would've made any number of alleged painting forgeries easier to pin on him.

Hardison is more of a caricaturist than an actual artist, as far as Clinton can tell, anyway. He did a sketch of Clinton over lunch that made Cruz laugh her ass off, but it was exaggerated and weird.

Clinton spends another few minutes going over known associates so that he'll recognize them if they bump into him on the street. There are a few pictures with people in Star Trek makeup so thick he's not sure he'd know them in real life without giant forehead things, but he'll give it the old college try.

When he's sure he's up on Hardison's old gangs, he gives in to temptation and calls Nisha. "Hey, it's me," he says.

She says, "Hey, 'me,'" and laughs, her voice rough. She's been drinking; no bad there. "What's up?"

"Just thinking about you," he says, "and wondering what you were thinking about."

Nisha laughs again. "You, now I'm talking to you. Want to come over?"

Clinton smiles. She's forgiven him for bailing on the last two times they were supposed to get together because he had to work late. "I'd love to."

"No catching any criminals before you get here unless it doesn't make you late," she says.

"You got it," he promises. "I'll be right over."

For once, he doesn't get a call that makes him break his promise, though he does pause to change before he leaves.

*

"Why, good morning," Caffrey says to the blonde woman with his normal "You know you want me" smile.

She looks about as unimpressed as the wall. Her nostrils flare and she says, "Not in my book, Agent--"

He tries again, because that's what he does, and offers her his hand. "Consultant. Neal Caffrey," like he hopes she knows his name.

She just shakes her head, completely dissing the handshake, and turns to Jones. "Agent Sheridan, up from DC."

"Jones," he says, and she'll take his hand, but not Caffrey's. There's one solid grip on this little girl. "Ignore Caffrey; his partner's running late and he's bored. What can I do for you, Agent Sheridan?"

Sheridan smiles tightly and glances at Hardison, who looks like he got all of an hour's sleep in the hellhole the FBI paid for. "I need to borrow your pet convict, actually."

Jones frowns. He's spent enough time hunting Hardison that he doesn't want to let the guy out of his sight. "What for?"

With a scowl like Sheridan's, she's probably only getting laid once a year or so, which has to make it all worse. "What do you think, Jones? I have a computer issue--some skimming going on, a site specializing in forged art trading--and I need an expert. And I don't mean E. T."

"I. T.," Hardison says, correcting her. "I ain't so good with little problems, but that sounds like my kind of stuff."

Sheridan smiles like a cat with a cornered mouse. It makes the hair stand up on Jones's neck. "Good."

Caffrey clears his throat. "If you're dealing with art forgeries--"

Jones says, "No. No way am I putting up with both of you."

"I'll take Hardison off your hands, at least," she says. "He's got one of those ankle trackers; he won't get away from me." She takes out her pen. "Get me the paperwork on him."

"He's not the only one who's permanently tagged," Caffrey says, and maybe he just wants to take a field trip. "Seriously, if you're dealing with forged art trading, I'd be happy to come along. I'm something of an expert."

"We already know it's forged," Sheridan says.

"I can tell you who did it." Caffrey spreads his hands. "Sometimes that's helpful."

Sheridan narrows her eyes. "Well--"

"Oh--hang on--" Jones half-turns away from them when he spots Cruz. "Agent Cruz, can I have a second?"

She looks from him to Sheridan. "What's up?"

"This is Agent Sheridan," he says, giving her his best "There's something hinky here" face. "She's up from DC."

"Agent Lauren Cruz," Cruz says, and gives Sheridan her hand, then whistles through her teeth. "Nice calluses. Do you climb a lot?"

Sheridan gives her a slightly less creepy smile. "Agent Sheridan," still no first name, and it's bugging the hell out of Jones. "When I have the time. Do you?"

Cruz shakes her head. "Mostly I stick to kickboxing. I tried climbing, but I didn't have the head for it."

Jones doesn't like the way Sheridan nods at that--too slowly, like she remembers she's supposed to do something a second after she should've--"I've been getting into that lately. We should spar. Sometime."

"Sure, if you have time before you leave town." Cruz gives Jones a look that lets him know she's going to be looking up Sheridan the second she gets to her desk. "Has Burke gotten in yet?"

"Haven't seen him," Jones says, and uses that as a segue for Sheridan while Cruz nods and goes to look her up. "About Agent Burke," giving him the title, "if you want to borrow Caffrey, you'd better clear it with him."

Sheridan's eyes light up like there's somebody home for the first time since she walked into the office. "Agent Peter Burke? Oh my god, I'm looking forward to meeting him so much."

Burke clears his throat from behind her. "Who's your friend, Jones?"

Jones gives him a quick headshake. "Agent Sheridan, Agent Burke."

"I've heard so much about you!" she says, too loud, and people are turning to look. "I can't believe I'm finally meeting you."

Burke looks like he'd rather fall through the floor than deal with this. "What can I do for you, Agent--Sheridan?" he asks.

"It's kind of a long story," she says, though it wasn't when she told Jones. "Maybe we should sit down."

Burke looks at Jones, who shrugs. The whole mob goes off to Burke's office while Jones stops by Cruz's desk. "Is she for real?"

"Looks like it." She turns her monitor towards him. The files on the FBI system check out.

Jones rubs his eyes. "Takes all kinds to make a world, but damn."

"I know what you mean," Cruz says, and gives him that crooked smile that makes him wonder whether she knows how flirty she looks. "Some people just rub you the wrong way for no reason."

*

Twelve hours later, when Caffrey and Hardison have been off the tracker grid for six hours and Burke calls in with a splitting headache from Hardison's room, Jones remembers the earlier conversation and goes to make them all another pot of coffee.

*

Caffrey calls in two days later from Northampton, Massachusetts. Burke hasn't slept or gone home since he got back into the office, but when he mouths, "It's Neal," at Jones, he sits down for the first time since his wife brought sandwiches by for dinner. "Didn't think you'd call," he says.

He frowns. "Held you at gunpoint, did they? That's a popular hobby." After a second, he shakes his head. "Van Gogh? That's not really your specialty. Maybe they should've kidnapped somebody else--no, I'm sure you did a good job." He rolls his eyes. "I'll put an alert out."

Another pause. "You know, you'd better be there when the police get there to pick you up or--" Then he smiles, and it looks way too relaxed for a guy who's been frantic for days. "Okay, so we're clear. See you later." He hangs up and tosses the phone onto the table. "Everybody go home and get some rest."

Jones says, "You don't think he's going to run again?"

"Says he was kidnapped." Burke covers his mouth, trying and failing to hide a yawn. "And he knows damn well what happens if he runs."

"You'll get him," Cruz says, and smiles faintly. She looks as exhausted as Jones feels.

"I'll send El after him," Burke says, and pushes to his feet. Then he points at Jones. "On the plus side, when Neal gets back, he'll have a better read on Hardison's current M. O. and associates."

"The one we saw--Sheridan--disappeared out of the database and doesn't match any searches we can do." Jones winces at the thought of another long chase, more missed dates with Cristal, who he forgot about until three in the morning Thursday, and Sandra, and anybody else who'll put up with him. "Facial recognition says she's in there somewhere, but under Interpol's files."

Burke thumps Jones on the shoulder heavily. "You got him once, you'll get him again."

Cruz yawns. "And we'll help. But not right now."

Jones sighs and scrubs at his eyes, trying not to fall asleep before he gets home. "Maybe next time, nobody's going to decide he has to be out on the streets to serve his sentence."

"I'll make a recommendation to that effect," Burke promises, and then gives him a look. "Do me one favor?"

Jones covers a yawn and prays it's nothing hard. "What?"

"Take a cab, Clinton."

He smiles and tries to hold back another yawn. "You got it."


End file.
